* * * * *

The last
I spoke with AlanHe was
asleep in a wooden boxWith the
lid closedA
blanket covering his casketEmbroidered
in some foreign language,That
reads, “Dead person inside”which he
was.He
needed that blanketThe
chapel was coldand he
was so thinHaving eaten nothing for daysAnd
chilly like the dead.I stood
guard over Alan’s bodyThe last
person in the chapelA candle
burningAnd the
air conditioning on.I stood
there a long timeNot
wanting him to be aloneWaiting
for someone to remove his bodyOnly to
learn the staff was waiting for me to leaveSo they
could.

I called
JoySitting
alone in her officeNear the
seaAnd
proposedWe chant
togetherWhich we
didMy cell
phone resting on Alan’s wooden coffinThe
speaker onJoy
chanting softly into the phoneMe
chanting out loudAlone in
the chapelwondering
what if anythingthe body
in the boxfelt of
the vibrationof our
heartsour
breathsand our voicesour
prayersand our
intentions.

We live in a small townJoy and IIn a
small cottageWith a
dogAnd one
mouseWho -
while I was away at the funeral -Must
have been practicingHis high
wire actAnd had
fallen somehowStraight
into the dog’s water bowland
drowned

Like the
mouseAlan had
known years of high wire balancingAnd had
fallen off his wireOnly to
land miraculously on his feetDazed
but still breathingA dozen
timesHe just
kept runningEvery
time but once

Two
weeks after his deathI sent
Alan an emailWith
Picasso’s line drawingOf
Julius and Ethel Rosenberg -It was
the anniversary of their deaths -And
about the struggle in Palestine -Which I
knew he’d want to hear aboutAnd
would have had something to sayThat
would have helped put my painIn
perspectiveBut the
email returned,With a
note that read,“Out of
Office,”Whereupon
I noticed my own high wire perchAnd
losing balanceFell
down prayingAnd so
gladI had
chantedOver
Alan’s coffin